Doing Dishes

It's the middle of the night.

I hear him slumbering restlessly beside me as I stare unblinking at the clock near the bed. It's 3 a.m....but I should know that without looking. I seem to have a knack for that...knowing the time that is...the hour...the minute...the second.

I can't sleep. Why don't I have a knack for THAT? There are things that I could be doing...mundane chores that might lull me into the repose I crave. They call to me, and I rise to meet them.

Quietly, I pull on the panties that lay discarded on the floor at my feet, and cover my body with the soft, clinging touch of my aging nightshirt. It embraces my skin so lovingly after all these years...so gently.

I hear the soft plop of my bare feet against the polished wooden floors of the living room, across the area rug...on to the vinyl tile of the kitchen, and I stare at the few supper dishes still waiting for my touch in the kitchen sink.

...just a few plates...a few utensils...they won't wait for long...

I insert the stopper in the drain and turn the hot water on...as hot as I can stand it...then squirt something lemony into the mix and watch as the foam begins to build. I want to just reach in and scrub, but I know that I should use the pale pink gloves that I keep under the sink for just such occasions as this.

I bend over, spreading my legs ever so slightly...and begin to search amid the half-empty containers of cleaning solvents until I find my prize. Then, pulling on the soft latex, I back up and begin to close the cupboard doors...and that's when I feel him behind me.

How could he have gotten so close...so near... without my ever hearing a sound? Could his footsteps have been hidden by the rush of the water that fills the sink? I don't know...I may never know...I will never care.

Silently...wordlessly...I feel his heated flesh against my buttocks...his body hard against the soft contours of my body. He presses against me, and I know what he wants. It's the same thing that I want...as I always want whenever he's near...but this time something seems different...out of sync.

The basin is full, and the foam wets the front of my nightshirt as he pins me between his body and the counter. It's warm...but not as warm as his breath against my neck...the feel of his tongue against my skin...the persistent pressure of his hands as they cup my breasts.

I try to turn, but he holds me fast. I try to remove the tauntingly pink latex gloves from my hands, but I am stilled by a single word whispered huskily in my ear...

"...no," he says.

I stop...confused. What does he want? How should I respond?

And then I feel his hands begin to move toward the hem of my nightshirt...sliding beneath it...circling...circling until they come to rest against the quivering flesh of my abdomen.

His fingers dip maddeningly beneath the elastic band of my panties...stroking my flesh...probing between my thighs until I feel a spark begin to catch and take hold deep inside.

His body...his manhood is so hard...so demanding against me. I want to turn and touch it...to touch him...but I can't.

...he said "...no."

...and so I wait.

My nipples have hardened...chilled almost painfully against the rough wetness of my shirt. I want him to touch them again...to feel the warmth of his hands on them...on me...but they are occupied elsewhere.

Slowly he slips his thumbs beneath the waistband of my panties, and peels the dampened cloth from my body...down past my hips...to my thighs as I grip the edge of the sink with trembling pink-clad palms.

Does he want me to help? Should I close my thighs I wonder as I feel the damp nylon cling to my knees, it's flexibility stretched to the limit.

Then something snaps...and I feel what's left of them pool around my right ankle.

They're gone...who cares?

I close my eyes...I don't want any distractions...not the foam which wets my body...not the sight of the streetlights beyond the kitchen window...in the street below. There is a young man out there walking his dog. If I can see him...can he see me? Can he see what we're doing...what we're going to do?

I want to turn...to strip the gloves from my fingers...to touch HIM. But again he says...

..."...no."

This time his voice comes not from behind, but from below...from between my legs...and I feel his lips quiver against my moist curls as he repeats the single word that holds me fast.

His fingers find me... open me to his gaze...to the soft warmth of his breath...to the delicious feel of his tongue lapping the moisture which flows profusely from between my thighs.

My knees grow weak...trembling...I feel myself sinking...but I can't. His hands are everywhere...supporting me...enticing me...driving me out of my mind.

I feel my body lose control. I lean forward...spreading my thighs ever wider...wanting to engulf him. I grasp the handles on the tap...one hot, one cold... as a shuddering climax rips through me. I can't breath. I want these damn pink things off of my hands...I want to feel his hardened shaft thrusting inside of me...I want more, I scream (aloud?).

Have the young man and his dog finally finished their nightly sojourn? I can't open my eyes...I can't look. Can they see? Can they see?

I don't care.

My mind whirls out of control...beyond the reaches of sanity as I feel him rise behind me...his hands lifting my nightshirt...grasping my hips. I feel his fingers position the very tip of his massive erection at the yawning, yearning opening to my inner core...my private being...and then he thrusts. One thrust. Hard...sure...complete.

I bend to accommodate him, spreading my legs ever wider...but he doesn't need it. He is already buried deep inside of me...deeper than he's ever been...deeper that I could have ever imagined...and then he begins to move...

Slowly he withdraws...then thrusts hungrily within me once again...plunging greedily into my very being. I throw my head back, a cry of passion dying breathlessly in my body. I want to touch him...but these maddeningly pink barriers keep my hands at bay...encased...bound...I can feel nothing except what he's doing to me...in me.

My knuckles must be white, I think, inside of their pink prison as yet another shuddering cataclysm tears through me, and I grip the handles of the kitchen faucet ever harder.

The foam in the sink has dissipated. Did I use the wrong brand of detergent?

And then I feel his tempo change...his hardened shaft pounding frantically at my very core. I try to hold him in a vaginal embrace...but he is unholdable...unstoppable...he is lost to the primal urge that drives us both. I feel myself once again trembling...falling to pieces...hot tears of blessed release coursing down my cheeks.

His panting has become erratic...harsh...almost alien. He stiffens...and gives one last, powerful thrust...filling me with his molten seed.

I feel complete...sated. His deep, jagged breathing warms the back of my neck...and I know he feels it too.

Finally, he allows me to turn, and tenderly removes the latex from my fingers. For the first time, I see that he is naked...his small, flat nipples hard against the firm contours of his chest.

Then, gently he wraps his arms around me...soothing my still quaking body...lending support where my knees cannot. He scoops me up in his arms, and carries me into the bedroom...back to the soft, solid security that we share...back to our lives of civilized repose.

The dishes remain undone. They'll be there tomorrow. The pink gloves lay discarded on the kitchen floor...they too will wait.

But doing dishes will never be the same again.